


break the lock if it don't fit

by AugustaByron



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Asexuality, Canon Typical Violence, Dysfunctional Relationship, Friendship, Gen, Humor, M/M, hockey fights
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-22
Updated: 2016-09-22
Packaged: 2018-08-16 15:59:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,488
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8108581
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AugustaByron/pseuds/AugustaByron
Summary: Admittedly, Kent thinks, as Jack's fist slams into his gut, that one might have been below the belt. In which Kent has a cunning plan, Jack shows affection through roughhousing, and the Las Vegas Aces despair of their captain.





	

**Author's Note:**

> So, I just--this happened. It will be jossed tomorrow, but I needed to write about happy-ish Kent being a mess, and Jack showing affection via wrestling will always be hilarious to me. 
> 
> Title from Florence & the Machine's Kiss With a Fist.
> 
> Warnings for: Ableist language, general swearing, hockey fights/canon-typical violence, mentions of an asexual person having had a sexual relationship in the past. If there's anything I've missed, please let me know!

Kent has a strategy for faceoffs with Zimms.

“How did Alicia's show go? I read some reviews but I haven't gotten a chance to call her.” Kent smiles as pleasantly as he can. Zimms scowls even deeper, eyes burning, shoulders tense. He's not even looking at the puck. Perfect. Kent is a fucking genius.

“And Shitty? He's in law school, right? Lardo's still at Samwell, that's gotta be rough on them.”

The puck drops and Kent is there, darting away with it before Zimms has recovered enough to stop glaring. He's on a breakaway, since Mashkov isn't on the ice right now to stop him, and the goal is in sight.

And there's Jeff, right in position, so boom: Kent passes and Jeff sends the puck home, five-hole. The goal horn blares, and Kent sails over to give his boy some love.

At the next faceoff, Jack says through gritted teeth, “Stop talking about my family, Parson.”

Parson. Jeez, Zimms, dramatic much?

“Dude, it's not like Dad Bob and I don't still hang,” Kent says. “He's got to impart his knowledge to somebody, right?”

Admittedly, Kent thinks, as Jack's fist slams into his gut, that one might have been below the belt.

It's a fast fight, Jack pummeling Kent around the stomach while Kent basically tries to stay upright. He gets in one or two good shots, and Zimms at least has a red spot on his jaw when the refs drag them apart. It looks, Kent thinks, a little hysterically, like a love bite.

“Shut the fuck up, Kenny,” Jack says as they get shooed off the ice by the ref.

It's the first fight of Kent's career, and as his kickass team converts this shit into another goal, he reflects on his current circumstances.

Zimms is hitting him again.

Kent beams.

 

See, the thing is—and Kent knows that it's kind of fucked up, okay?--Jack shows affection through fighting. When they were in the Q, Jack was always wrestling with Kent, pouncing on him, shoving him around a little. When they switched from being homoerotic best bros to actually getting down, Zimms shifted from hip checking Kent into the boards to pressing him against walls, biting his neck even though hickeys were fucking risky and stupid, and yeah, sure, still shoving Kent around a little. It rocked.

Compared to the icy silence on Zimms' end of the telephone for the last, oh, six years or so, not that Kent's counting, whatever, punching Kent is a major step up. It shows that Jack still cares. That he wants to be buds again. He never roughed around with dudes he didn't care about.

So Kent clearly has to trick Jack into punching him in the face the next time they play each other.

“You are the most fucked up person I have ever met,” Jeff says, when Kent shares his totally awesome plan. “You want Zimmermann to beat the shit out of you again?”

“Hey,” Kent protests, injured. Zimms didn't beat the shit out of him. Kent did just fine. “Anyway, it'll be great! He'll punch me a few times and then we'll be friends again. That's how Jack works.”

“You're so stupid,” Jeff says, sounding amazed. “I'm honestly just—how are you so stupid and still alive? How did you reach adulthood?”

“This is the perfect plan,” Kent says. “Nothing can go wrong.”

 

Kent has never gotten into a real fight before. It wasn't allowed in Juniors, and well—Kent was always really, really good. First line, fast hands. A small guy. So the refs looked out for him more than they would some of the others. A few more penalties got called for people who went after Kent Parson than guys who went after, you know, anyone else.

Except now, Kent needs to fight. He needs to really get in there and—punch his ex-best friend, okay, but more to the point, he needs to learn how to fight.

“I cannot help you,” frowns Popper, the Aces' giant Swedish king of dirty play. “You are too small and expensive.”

“Pops,” Kent says. “Poppa. If you don't, I'll find someone who will. And then when I lose I'll say I learned my technique from you.”

“And when you lose after I teach you?” Popper asks. His faith in Kent is inspiring, truly.

“I'll say it was Kurty,” Kent offers.

Popper considers. “I will teach you. But you will never tell management or Jeff.”

“Why not Jeff?” Kent demands, indignant. Kent's the goddamn captain. People keep their wacky schemes from him, not the other way around.

“Because Jeff is your husband,” Popper says darkly. Rude. Kent and Jeff are only a little more gay than the average bromance. “Okay. First, you need to work on your stance.”

 

By the time the next Falconers game rolls around, Kent is feeling pretty confident. He's been practicing a lot. Popper has stopped pretending to cry when he sees Kent's form.

Then, he goes out and gets his ass handed to him again.

“Fuck you,” Zimms snarls, low and savage. Kent grins at him, licks his bloody lips, and Zimms looks startled.

Pay attention to me, Kent thinks. His cat does this thing sometimes where she tries to claw her way up his leg when he's getting lazy with the laser pointer. Kent feels like that now. Pay attention to me. I've been waiting.

“That all you got, Zimmermann?” It's something Kent used to say all the time: during board games, playing keepaway, when Jack broke off from messy teenage kisses to catch his breath. The words taste good on his tongue now, mingling with his own coppery blood, Jack's knuckles.

Jeff is totally right, Kent needs therapy.

“Fuck, Parse,” Jack says as the refs are skating them to their respective boxes. “What the fuck are you trying to do?”

“Kick your ass,” Kent hollers back, and that's the soundbite that makes the highlight reel.

 

And that's—that. Status quo. Kent bugs Jack enough that Jack grits his teeth and then, eventually, throws a punch. When he's done beating Kent up, Jack looks at Kent like he used to: exasperation, fondness. Recognition.

Since the Aces and Falcs don't actually play each other that often, Kent doesn't have many chances for this shit. That's good, because management is getting suspicious.

“I don't think it's working,” Kent moans to Jeff, who is watching some shitty Lifetime movie and refusing to pet him, even though Kent is lying across Jeff's entire bed. Jeff sucks. Getting beat up on a roadie sucks. Everything sucks.

“No, what the fuck makes you think that this great fucking plan of yours isn't working?” Jeff says, not even bothering to look away from the TV. Kent nudges his head against Jeff's thigh, and Jeff flicks him in the temple.

“Ow,” Kent protests. “What the fuck was that for?”

“For being an idiot,” Jeff says. “If you want to get your ass beat and then get cuddled, I have the number of a very discreet professional lady.”

“Why the fuck do you have a dominatrix's phone number, numnuts?” Kent demands, but seriously. When he and Jack used to do this, it was a lot more—affectionate. Jack would give Kent a purple nurple, but then he would throw his arm around Kent's shoulders while they were walking out to Kent's shitty third-hand pickup truck after practice. He would wrestle Kent to the ground until Kent cried uncle, but then they would lay there, breathing the same air for a minute or two.

It wasn't a sex thing. It was just—affection. Intimacy. Kent misses that way fucking more than he ever missed Jack's dick. Which in retrospect should have maybe been a clue about the ace thing.

“You are the stupidest person I have ever met,” Jeff says, still looking resolutely at the TV. “It is my supreme misfortune to be your best friend.”

“Popper's the one who taught me how to fight,” Kent says, and watches Jeff's face go into contortions of surprise, rage, and, finally, an eerie calm. Aw, he really does love Kent.

“I'm going to go kill him,” Jeff says, like Popper isn't seven feet tall and made of solid steel. He turns off the TV, stands up, and starts to leave the room. He pauses at the door. “Figure out your shit with Zimmermann and I'll cuddle with you. But seriously, figure it the fuck out.”

 

They only play the Falconers once more this season, unless by some act of witchcraft Zimms and Mashkov pick their shitty team up on their backs and carry them to the Cup finals. Not fucking likely. So Kent's only got one chance to get this right.

He goes right for the money.

“Remember that stupid face you used to make when I let you skip condoms?”

Zimms doesn't even wait for the puck to drop to come for him.

“Meet me after the fucking game,” Zimms hisses, his fists bunched in Kent's jersey. Around them, the Providence crowd is cheering. “We're fucking settling this.”

 

Jack doesn't want to do much of anything after the game. He's smug with the Falconer's win, but whatever. The Aces had an AHL call-up in goal because everyone on D has the goddamn flu, so it's not like Kent's crying into his point streak or anything.

“Are you okay,” Zimms says in the tunnel outside the visitor's locker room. Doesn't ask, the freak, says. He's shifting awkwardly from one foot to the other, and he's got a look on his face like he'd rather be anywhere else.

But he's not. He's here, with Kent, for fucking once. Kent's entire face is throbbing, but Jack is acting like a robot in Kent's general direction, so small victories.

“I'm fine,” Kent says. “What, you think you're so tough?”

“Shut up, Parse,” Zimms snaps back, and that's more like it.

“You owe me painkillers and a steak,” Kent adds. He's aware that he's pushing his luck, but that has historically worked out for him.

To his surprise, Jack chuckles, icy reserve melting into something achingly familiar. “I can manage the steak, I guess. I'll drive.”

“I already took my life into my hands once tonight, Zimms, we'll take a fucking cab,” Kent says.

Jack punches Kent on the shoulder. Lightly, but still: ouch. Kent is basically one big bruise this time of the year, especially after tonight. “Shut up and come on, dipshit.”

“I'm just saying,” Kent says, hurrying after Zimms as he heads off, sort of amazed at how well this plan is working out. “Have you figured out how to use a turn signal yet? Because there's no shame in a driver's ed refresher course, especially if it would save hundreds of innocent lives.”

“I'll kick your ass again,” Jack says, lazy, and yep. Kent's totally got this in the bag.

 

Dinner is—yeah.

Jack chews his steak. Kent negotiates gingerly around the side of his mouth that doesn't want to function. Jack stares at Kent across the table. Kent tries to bring up mutual acquaintances from the league. The silence between them is stifling.

Kent blames the environment. They can't beat each other up in a fancy restaurant. There are cloth napkins. Kent was not raised to start a fight anywhere that doesn't serve ketchup in tiny packets.

“How's Dad Bob?” Kent finally tries, and Jack flinches.

“Don't talk about my dad,” Jack says, low, warning. Kent's blood thrums. That's more like it.

“What the fuck do you want me to talk about, then, Zimms?” Kent asks. Jack's never once backed down from a challenge. Not once as long as Kent's known him. This is going to be good.

Instead, Jack glares at Kent and says, “What is it you want, Kent? What are you trying to do?”

And like, fuck. Kent doesn't want to _talk_ about it. Zimms was kind of supposed to get it by now. This is the fourth time they've fought. It never used to take them this long to figure out where the other one was coming from.

Kent's phone buzzes. He checks it.

 _Are u rly out w Zimmerman did he beat u up and steal ur lunch money yet???_ Jeff asks.

Kent shoves his phone in his pocket. Jeff's an idiot anyway.

“I've got a boyfriend,” Zimms says. Whispers, like anyone in the steakhouse knows who they are or gives two fucks about their conversation. “So whatever kind of rise you're trying to get out of me--”

“Whoa,” Kent interrupts. “I don't do that anymore. The dick thing. Sex. I don't really like it.”

Jack blinks at him. Then, he says, stiff, “If I ever--”

“You didn't do anything wrong, dickface,” Kent says, feeling a little warm, in like, his soul. Or his stomach. After all the shit between them, Jack's first instinct is still to check that he didn't hurt Kent. Didn't hurt him for real. He's clearly okay with punching Kent in the ribs. “I didn't say it was like, traumatizing. I just figured out it wasn't my favorite.”

“So what've you been trying to pull? If it's to get me in trouble with my coach, or--”

Kent cuts Jack off with a gesture before he can delve his way into any crazy theories. “Look. I just wanted you to pay attention to me. You used to be my best friend, I miss that. I miss you.”

“That,” Jack says, cutting off a bite of his steak, “is unbelievably fucked up.”

“Well it worked,” Kent says, not bothering to protest. “You only fight your friends, Zimms, maybe you're the one who's fucked up.”

“Nope,” Jack says. “Still you. I fucking wrestle with my friends, that's not picking a fight on NHL ice with a guy twice my size, Kenny. Crisse.”

“You wish you were twice my size, lardass,” Kent says. The warm feeling has returned to his belly. Jack hasn't signaled for the check, doesn't seem to have any intention to.

“Seriously. Fucked up,” Zimms says. He takes a sip of his water and settles back into his chair. Kent didn't realize how tense Zimms was until now, when he can practically see Jack's muscles loosen. “So what did you say Lootey has been doing since the Q?”

This, Kent reflects, was a really good plan.

 

“I settled shit with Zimms,” Kent says, bursting into Jeff's hotel room two hours later, bright with wine and triumph. “Pay up.”

“No more fights?” Jeff asks, even as he shifts on the bed to make room for Kent. There's some movie flickering on the TV. Nothing important.

“Can't guarantee that,” Kent says, settling against his buddy. Jeff is warm and awesome. Kent may never move. “But it's definitely not a bad thing anymore. It might be platonic foreplay or something now.”

“How do you even live,” Jeff murmurs, mostly over Kent's head.

Whatever. Kent totally won this one.

 


End file.
